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Dutch’s neck tie is suffocatingly tight, and he wedges a finger between the fabric and his throat in attempts to loosen it. The itchy material of his white glove does little to alleviate the irritation he feels, further scratching at his neck, and he eventually drops his hand with an aggravated grumble.
This entire party is making him feel claustrophobic.
Hosea had come up with the idea. He pitched it to Dutch as an excellent way to scout their newest goldmine— the businessman of the grand city of Winchester. High-earners and high-rollers, the men were known to celebrate any milestone they could, inviting their wealthy associates and investors to join them. Convincing these fools Dutch and Hosea were looking to become entrepreneurs in this fine town had been simple, and they were welcomed in with open arms. It was only natural that they were eventually extended a party invitation.
Dutch shoves his hand into his suit pocket, fishing out his watch. He often lets it dangle from his breast pocket, but tonight he tucked it away. It’s hardly even nine o’ clock.
Usually, he thrives in conditions like these. Dressed up ladies, fine-looking gentlemen, rich hosts, and free champaign make an excellent cocktail of entertainment. Sipping on his second glass of the evening, Dutch wonders why tonight is so much different.
If he had to guess, his first assumption (not that he had a second) would be Hosea. They split up during these events normally anyhow, but over the hordes of people, they would share knowing glances. Dutch may pass by Hosea, lay a sly hand on his back, and then disappear into the crowd. Hosea may brush Dutch’s shoulder and mutter a snarky comment before starting up a conversation with a passerby.
Normally.
Hosea was occupied tonight.
Everywhere Dutch looks, Hosea is deep in a discussion with someone. The last time Dutch saw him was when the hour just rounded eight, talking business with one of the gentlemen, and since he is nowhere to be seen. Worry flutters in Dutch’s chest, but he pushes that down. He buries that feeling alongside all the other feelings he gets when Hosea is too far away, or too close, or smiling too wide, or frowning too deep.
Tilting his head back, he gulps down the rest of his glass in one sip. A few odd looks are cast his way, but he ignores them. Placing his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter, Dutch makes his way through the main floor of the party. Multiple sets of french doors lining the far wall are propped open, showing off the vibrant garden that is undoubtedly well kept.
Many guests remain inside, not wanting their dresses to drag or shoes to be soiled, but Dutch has no such qualms. He needs a smoke, and it’s bad taste to light tobacco indoors when ladies are present; or so he’s gathered in his time parading around as a faux high-society man.
Lampposts light the sidewalk as Dutch shuffles outdoors. The hot weather is somewhat nullified by the cool breeze blowing off the river nearby, but the gusts are never strong enough to provide him with any lasting relief, especially not in all these layers.
Walking deeper into the greenery, Dutch puffs on his cigar. He bites it between his teeth. Momentarily, he pictures Hosea taking a smoke break with him, imagining how his lips would wrap around the cigar as he held it with his lean fingers.
Dutch sucks in a deep breath, hoping the smoke will chase away his intruding thoughts of Hosea and the sudden warmth in his cheeks.
The gravel under his shoes crunches with each step, the sound loud in the absence of anyone else’s presence. He wanders aimlessly through the garden, stopping to admire the plants that are in bloom. There are many he doesn’t know the names of. They all look alike, hardly any distinct enough to tell apart from others. His eyes catch on some red blossoms, and he realizes he does recognize one type.
Red carnations are in full bloom this late in the spring, borderline summer. They’ve been planted on the outskirts of the garden, and Dutch finds that a damn shame. Carnations were always his favorite, and tucking them away in such a manner seems foolish; they were better looking flowers than all the others in the garden. Making his way over, Dutch extends a hand to gently brush one of the flower’s petals.
This one is different from the others. Paler in the middle, nearing pink, with red edges it stands out from her sisters. She sits prettily amongst the others but doesn’t get lost. Dutch sighs through his nose, feeling a twinge in his chest.
Clenching and unclenching his jaw, he tries not to think about what has him so bothered this evening, in more ways than one.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Hosea dressed nice before. The pair fancied themselves pursuers of finer things, in a way, and never turned down the opportunity to don their suits and shine their shoes. This evening, however, Dutch took note of just how nicely Hosea’s new suit fit him. It was sharp, just like everything else about the man. His eyes were cutting, always seeing right through Dutch in the best of ways and the worst of ways.
(Often in ways Dutch didn’t realize.)
Dutch isn’t sure how he once got on without Hosea. Without someone to watch his back at every turn, to bounce ideas off of. On nights where the dew froze over, Dutch isn’t sure how he used to get by without Hosea pressed against his side as they exchanged stories in low whispers. Dutch also isn’t sure who he used to dream of before Hosea. Many mornings, he wakes in his tent and finds his belly warm with an ache he can’t ease, a desire he can’t fully satiate on his own.
There are lots of things Dutch isn’t sure about.
He’s left to wonder.
Wonder if Hosea’d let Dutch pomade his hair some mornings, if only so he could card his fingers through the blond locks. Wonder how his skin would feel under Dutch’s fingers, and if he spread his whole hand out wide, would it cover the expanse of the small of his back? If not, Dutch wonders if Hosea would let his lips drag against the rest.
Dutch’s tobacco smoke suddenly sours at the sickly sweet idea of kissing Hosea.
Hand shaking, he coughs, sputtering as he puts out his cigar before slipping it back into his pocket. The thought is one he’s had many times (and many times buried). Yet he’s never felt such the vehement urge to do it, to kiss down the front of Hosea’s chest until his nose brushed the blond hair that ventured past his waistband, to graze his neck and shoulder with his teeth before tracing the touch with his tongue.
Dutch runs a hand through his hair, taking in gulping breaths of air. This line of thinking surely cannot continue, and he searches for means to distract himself.
Re-entering the party, Dutch snags a third glass of champagne. The chatter around him is little more than a steady hum as he navigates the partygoers. There are few he stops to talk with, though he doesn’t stay for long; he’s trying to find his way upstairs. He locates the red carpet stairs with pictures hanging on the walls. He sips his drink, taking the flight step by step and staring hard at each painting
(One is of a man, elegant in all senses, and the painter has signed his name on the bottom right corner of the canvas. Dutch wonders if the painter ever wanted to undress his muse, worship him, fall at his feet and pray thanks to God for him.)
But when others begin coming up and down the stairs, nearly bumping him, Dutch eventually hurries to the second floor. Dutch scans the fewer people up there, failing to spot the man he’s searching for. Sudden worry chips away at him for the second time this evening, and he begins to fear for Hosea’s safety. Had he been caught trying to lift a watch or steal a few bills from a study? Dutch can’t be sure, and though he knows Hosea can handle himself, little pinpricks of concern spur him forward: just to make sure he’s alright.
Dutch makes polite conversation as he navigates the labyrinth that is the second floor, each room and hall looking identical to the last. Gaudy furniture, gold-framed pieces of art, loud wallpaper. It’s all the same, except for the people.
In one room, he spots an old couple swaying in a slow dance. The tune playing downstairs echoes up and all around, providing them a soft guide to follow the rhythm of. He ducks out of that room.
Down that same hall, a young man has a bright red kiss mark on his cheek and ruffled dark hair. He stands in front of a china cabinet, studying his reflection, trying to spruce up his appearance. As he passes, Dutch taps his own cheek and the boy flushes, quickly wiping away the lipstick he had not before noticed.
Around the corner, through the doors to the balcony, Dutch spots a second couple.
A woman in a deep blue dress nearly hangs off the arm of a man. She has brunette curls that fall down her shoulders and back, gold earrings peaking out. With a gentle smile and soft giggle, she converses with her companion, nearly pressing her shoulder to his. He leans back against the balcony railing, light hair shining in the moonlight.
Dutch has always valued Hosea’s company. His mind is sharp, and the witty remarks he offers Dutch are nothing short of ingenious. It seems he is not the only one who feels such a way.
Bile works its way up Dutch’s throat as he stares at the two of them interact.
Frankly, Dutch himself is to blame for this. His wild ideas always get ahead of his mind, logic thrown to the wind, and this is no different. Dutch is no stranger to himself; he knows his own tendencies. His fancy towards Hosea was merely a result of their proximity.
When he hasn’t bed women in months, surely a few salacious thoughts of his friend would pervade his mind and stain it permanently. Because now when he imagines pleasure, it is never without Hosea. Likewise, when he imagines love, it is never without Hosea, and is that not a scary thought?
Such a thought is what now has a flash of envy working through Dutch’s veins, though he understands he is in no position to be envious. He holds no possession over his friend, and is not entitled to be the sole recipient of his attention. His cheeks burn hot with shame at the assumption he was any more special than the next man— or woman.
Admittedly, the two of them would make a handsome couple. Her dark colors compliment Hosea’s paleness, his charms matching her gentleness. Dutch can see her for all she is and know that she is all he isn’t.
Dutch stands at the end of the hall dumbly, staring, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his chest.
On the balcony, the woman takes to talking, looking out over the railing as she gestures with her hand. Hosea nods, but his gaze turns towards the doors. He spots Dutch, and his face seems to glow as he straightens up. A smile crosses his lips (oh, his lips) and he lifts his hand in a wave.
Offering merely a curt nod, Dutch turns around and hurries away. Cowardice has always been a point of contention for him. How can he walk brazenly into town after town, con the law and people alike, and flee with bullets being shot at his back without so much as breaking a sweat, but each interaction between him and Hosea leaves him with weakened knees and a racing heart?
Dutch discards his glass onto the first table he passes, the idea of more champagne now making him feel sick. More than anything, he wants to leave. To collect his coat, call their driver, and return to the hotel they’re staying at to keep up appearances. Afterall, they couldn’t camp out and come to town smelling of campfire smoke and dirt each day.
Someone catches his elbow, and Dutch turns to find Hosea staring at him with a confused look. In a low voice, he asks, “Everything alright?”
Grinning, Dutch answers, “Sure. Just hadn’t seen you in about an hour, got a little concerned.” He keeps his gaze forward. He doesn’t let his eyes drop to where Hosea’s hand has now closed around his wrist. His thumb creeps under Dutch’s sleeve, just far enough to brush the thin sliver of skin exposed between his glove and shirt.
“Return to your lady friend, Hosea,” Dutch says suggestively. He wiggles his eyebrows, drawing his hand away from Hosea and straightening out his tie. The action only further dishevels it, and Dutch isn’t enough of an idiot to miss the scrutinizing way Hosea looks at him.
“Maybe we should call it an evening, Dutch. Retire early.”
“What? Hosea, my friend,” Dutch reaches out, but first he glances around to ensure no-one is around, and he settles a hand on Hosea’s shoulder. “Retire early? The night is still young, as are we! Amongst these men we are spring chickens, ripe for spilling industry secrets to. To end the night now would be nothin’ short of a travesty, surely you see that?”
“I see that,” Hosea relents with a sigh, dragging a hand down his face in thought (eyes, taking Dutch apart, trying to figure him out, again and again). “But there’ll be plenty more parties, and plenty more snobs to sift information out of. Let’s call it.”
He sucks in a deep breath, trying to figure out what has Hosea so keen to leave. For all his strengths, Dutch van der Linde seems to have finally found his Achilles heel: Hosea Matthews.
Because when Hosea’s brows furrow, green eyes shining with concern, Dutch finds he can’t deny him. When his fingers twitch at his sides, as if he were contemplating reaching out, and he gnaws on his lip so prettily, Dutch must cave eventually.
He turns away and waves with his hand. “Alright. You win, old girl. Say your goodbyes and I’ll meet you at the door.”
(Staring at Dutch’s back, Hosea frowns in confusion. His lips begin to form around the words “what goodbyes?”)
Dutch leaves Hosea standing alone in the hall and goes downstairs. After collecting their jackets, he drapes Hosea’s over his arm as he waits just outside the main gate. He’s thumbing at the fabric, struck by how different this piece is from all of Hosea’s others. This one is new, fresh from the tailor, and lacks the neat stitches Hosea sews into place when his clothes are torn. He sews up Dutch’s, too, though the man isn’t sure when he finds the time. Some mornings, Dutch awakes to find a freshly sewn shirt folded neatly at the foot of his bedroll.
“Ready?”
Hosea was swifter than Dutch anticipated, and he jumps. “Since when did you get so sneaky?” Dutch kids, extending Hosea’s jacket to him. The blond takes it with a smirk, slinging it over one shoulder and letting it dangle from a hooked finger.
“Since when did you leave parties early?”
A genuine question, hidden behind snark.
Dutch doesn’t have an answer— at least not one he’s willing to give— so Hosea waits. Neither of them speak. Heart beating in his throat, Dutch watches as Hosea takes a half-step closer, expression twisted into something he, for the first time, can’t decipher.
Their carriage pulls up, the driver tipping his hat to them. Hosea drags his eyes away from Dutch, then opens the door and gestures for him to crawl in.
Inside, the men sit in seats opposite one another, face to face. Dutch busies himself with removing his gloves and shoving them into his pockets, all to avoid Hosea’s eyes. The man’s stern look is enough to break down the strongest of people (and as Dutch has learned, he is particularly weak where Hosea is concerned).
He keeps his knees angled out, trying to keep them from bumping Hosea’s. On the ride here, his legs were stretched out and tangled with Dutch’s as they went over their plan for the evening, what targets to introduce themselves to and what information they would try to gather. Now, they don’t even brush, and Hosea has clearly taken note of this.
“You’re upset,” Hosea says, his accusation startling Dutch. He had been staring out of the window, watching Hosea’s reflection in the glass.
“Upset? Why would I—”
“Dutch, I’m not an idiot,” he interrupts, glaring at Dutch from under his pale lashes. They’re long, and they rest on his cheeks when he closes his eyes. Dutch wants to lean in and hold his face in his hands, just so he can look a little bit closer. Maybe so he can trace the crooked lines of his nose, too, and kiss the sharp angle of his jaw if he were allowed. But he’d settle for just looking, if that were all Hosea permitted him to do.
Truthfully, it is all he does, even if he shouldn’t. When it is especially hot in the morning, and the two men discard their overshirts as they maneuver around camp, Hosea looks downright sinful. His skin glistens with a sheen of sweat and his shoulders burn faster than the rest of him. With a red tint venturing down his chest, Dutch always has to avert his eyes.
Similarly, he averts his eyes now.
“I never said you were an idiot, Hosea.”
“You implied it.”
“I never said anything that implied that.”
“It ain’t always about what you say, Dutch,” Hosea snaps. “I know you’ve got your way with words, and you can spin ‘em up real nice, but sometimes it’s what you don’t say that’s the loudest.”
Dutch’s nose wrinkles up at Hosea’s accusation, though he doesn’t exactly know what he’s being accused of. He clenches his teeth, gritting out, “Then what aren’t I saying, Hosea?”
They stare at one another hard, expressions skewed up. Dutch doesn’t like the hurt on Hosea’s face, and he hopes that doesn’t show on his own. Eventually, long and slow, Hosea draws out the words, “You’re jealous.”
“Jealous?” His hands curl into fists, nails burying deep into his palms. White hot fear crashes into him, and the sensation is one he’s never experienced. It’s like being in a duel or shootout with no adrenaline rush, no racing thoughts. It’s still, compared to that. Or paralyzing.
“Yeah, jealous.”
“I am most certainly not jealous,” Dutch spits out, their driver slowing the horses down. They must’ve reached their hotel already. “That-that’s ridiculous, Hosea! Now you know I hold you in high regard, but there’s nothing you have to make me jealous of you—”
“Not of me, Dutch.”
His mouth snaps shut, and suddenly Dutch understands what Hosea is getting at. He blushes, and his lips part slightly as he tries to form a proper response. He needs to do damage control, to reverse this trainwreck and correct its path. Except he can’t muster up a single word, and Hosea keeps staring at him, and he won’t look away, and he’s watching him with those eyes; the carriage stops.
Dutch slams open the door. He drops into the puddle of muddy water without blinking, keeping a brisk pace as he enters the hotel. He knows the doorman welcomes him, but he’s too busy searching for his room key in his pockets to answer. Not even risking a glance back, he takes the stairs two at a time to their floor, all the while he’s doing a pat down to check each place he may have put his key.
Everywhere, except for with Hosea, who was exponentially better at keeping up with these things than Dutch was.
Letting his head thunk forward against his room door, Dutch groans and squeezes his eyes shut.
When the stairs creak, and footsteps come shuffling up beside him, he doesn’t have to look to know who it is. All he does is extend his hand, palm up, and wait.
The sound of a key entering a lock is heard, and the door beside Dutch’s is being pushed open; however, he never gets his key. Hosea has unlocked his own room and left the door open, not so much an invitation as it is an ultimatum. Dutch spares himself only a few seconds to gather his courage and collect his thoughts before stepping inside.
Closing the door gently behind him— this is a conversation that cannot be overheard— Dutch dives straight into his denial.
“Hosea, I am not sure where you got that idea but I’m not jealous. Certainly not,” his voice falters. “Certainly not of your romantic prospects, you’ve gotta listen.”
“I’m listening, Dutch.” And he is. He’s standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest. Dutch isn’t sure what he thinks of his refusal, because he hasn’t gathered the courage to look him in his face, but his tone is gentler than he was anticipating. Not as judgmental as he thought it’d be.
“It ain’t like that, Hosea. It… I ain’t like that.”
“I ain’t like that, neither.”
Dutch about feels his heart shatter, though relief also tugs at his bones. “Good. Then-then can you give me my key?”
A long pause fills the air, and each second that stretches on is a second Dutch feels his boldness wither. “What if I were?” Hosea asks.
Dutch blanches, “Were what?”
“ Like that , Dutch. What if I were like that?” His tone is harsh, and when he stalks forwards, his volume rises. “What would happen then? Would this partnership end? Would you leave everything we’ve done to just rot?” He demands.
“No,” Dutch retorts, moving backwards in step with Hosea until he’s crowded against the door. Hosea’s body is hot, and even now, Dutch’s thoughts are full of him. “I wouldn’t, Hosea, you’re my partner.”
“Then why the hell do you think I’d leave you over it?”
“I never said you’d—”
“It ain’t about what you say, Dutch! God damnit! It’s never about what you say,” Hosea near-shouts. “It’s about how you are, how we are! We don’t got a normal friendship, Dutch, normal men don’t act how we act.”
Hosea places a hand on Dutch’s chest, slipping it under his jacket so the only thing between them is the thin fabric of Dutch’s shirt. His heart thumps, beating harder in response to Hosea’s touch, and Dutch feels his fingers twitch against his chest (that hesitancy from before, now laid out for Dutch to pick apart and dissect). Actions slow, like he was moving through molasses, Dutch sets a hand on Hosea’s shoulder. It slips back, until his rough fingers brush the nape of Hosea’s neck, just where his hair ends. The shiver it elicits from him forces a whispered curse from Dutch.
Hosea’s breath is shaky as he leans forward, and Dutch’s eyes drop to his lips. They’re red from where he chews on them, a nervous habit, and even now he has his lower lip drawn slightly between his teeth. Tilting his head, Dutch aims to correct that problem. His other hand comes up to cradle Hosea’s jaw, thumb gently freeing his lip before he leans in.
Hosea’s lips are warm. Brain foggy, that is the only accurate word that comes to Dutch’s mind. His mouth moves easy against Dutch’s, and there’s a rhythm to it that is specially theirs. At first, it’s nearly too much. Soon, it’s not enough.
Hosea’s tongue is hot. Hot and invasive and tasting of champagne; though Dutch may be imagining the second, more vanilla-like taste in his partner’s mouth, sweet as nectar, he savors it. Savors it and savors Hosea, who has buried a hand in Dutch’s hair and is tugging slightly to draw breathy gasps from him.
“Hosea,” Dutch says against his lips, lashes fluttering open. Hosea presses a kiss to the corner of Dutch’s mouth, then plants more kisses down his jaw and neck. His fingers work off the tie that tucks away the skin he licks at, and Dutch keens at the touch. He helps, too, shucking off his jacket and slipping Hosea’s off his shoulders so they both fall to the floor.
In a tangle of limbs, discarded clothing, and sloppy kisses, they make it to Hosea’s bed. Dutch straddles Hosea’s hips, and each time Hosea shifts beneath him, there’s a delicious friction that makes them both groan.
Desperate fingers loosen belt buckles, gentle hands coax off undergarments. Loving mouths mark skin, mouths whisper words of encouragement. Hosea’s nails dig into Dutch’s hips, and Dutch pants hot and heavy against Hosea’s neck. Taking one another apart and putting them back together, touches more intimate than just those of physical pleasure.
Later, Dutch’s fingers trace up and down Hosea’s spine, feeling each bump and dip. Slowly, at the small of his back, he spreads his fingers and presses his palm flush to Hosea. Near asleep, he grumbles, and Dutch chuckles into his hair. When he asks if he can kiss whatever he can’t touch, Hosea only sighs fondly, placing a kiss on Dutch’s jaw.
(He takes that as a yes.)